Laura Read online

  Copyright 2017 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: January 2017

  This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

  “You don't think this could be about Laura, do you?”

  Ten years ago, they were all friends. Ten years ago, something terrible happened. Ten years ago, they agreed to take the truth about Laura to their graves. All they had to do was forget, and keep their mouths shut.

  But when a hidden force starts cutting them down one by one, in a series of increasingly horrific incidents, the remaining friends are forced to face the truth.

  Somehow, Laura has come back.

  Laura is a horror story about six people who thought they could hide the truth, and about the girl who returns from the grave to make them all pay.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Victoria

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two

  Sophie

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Three

  Elliot

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Four

  Laura

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part Five

  Victoria

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Part Six

  Nick

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Part Seven

  Lynn

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Part Eight

  Jonathan

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Part Nine

  Victoria

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Part Ten

  Elliot

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Part Eleven

  Sophie

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Laura

  Prologue

  Six months ago

  “Leave?” I reply, tilting my head slightly. “What are you talking about? You can't leave.”

  Jonathan says nothing. He simply stands in front of the window, silhouetted against the late-night London skyline, with his suitcase by his feet.

  “You can't leave!” I say again, raising my voice just a notch. I shouldn't do that. It's vulgar. “Stop this nonsense at once. We're going out to dinner tomorrow night with the Fugelmans.”

  “You can go,” he says quietly, keeping his voice so low that I can barely make out a word. “Tell them whatever you want.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that the whole idea is absurd, but the words catch in my throat. I couldn't possibly embarrass Dan and Lucy Fugelman by turning up to their dinner party and having to admit that my marriage had ended. After a moment, feeling something wet and cold dribbling between my fingers, I look down at the leg of lamb I've been holding, and I realize that it's slowly starting to defrost.

  “Victoria, come on,” Jonathan continues with a sigh, “you can't tell me this is a complete surprise. I mean, the last few months have been hellish. It's not just me, is it? They must have been hell for you too.”

  He leaves a moment of silence, as if he expects me to agree.

  “Haven't they?” he asks finally.

  “It's Friday night,” I reply. “You can't leave me on a Friday night.”

  “I don't think there's any rule about -”

  “People don't leave on Fridays,” I continue, and again my voice briefly betrays a hint of irritation before I quickly get it back under control. “People leave on Sundays or Mondays, once the weekend is over. They never leave at the start of the weekend. It's just not...”

  My voice trails off for a moment. How can I make him see sense?

  “It's a ridiculous idea,” I add, as I feel more water dribbling between my fingers and starting to run down onto my wrists. “You can leave on Sunday at the earliest. We have our weekend's social arrangements all laid out and these things can't be canceled on the spur of the moment. There's no -”

  “Put the leg of lamb down, Victoria.”

  “There's no time for us to separate before the weekend is over,” I point out, making sure to remain polite despite his relentless provocation. He really can be very tiresome. “We can discuss this on Sunday evening and set out a proper timetable. There are letterheads to alter, invitations to deal with, and so many other -”

  “Can you please put that leg of lamb down?” he asks, interrupting me. “I can't have a serious discussion with you while you're standing there in a black gown, holding a leg of lamb! For God's sake, woman, you look ridiculous!”

  “We need three months, at least,” I tell him. “That would be an acceptable lead time for -”

  “You're not listening to me!” Reaching down, he picks up his suitcase, and I feel an extra flicker of panic in my chest. “You can do what you want, and tell people what you want, but I've already booked a room at the Merchant. I'll stay there for a while until I can find a place of my own and -”

  “No.”

  “Victoria -”

  “I've already told you!” I say firmly, struggling more than ever to keep my anger under control. “I'm not agreeing to this!”

  “There's nothing to agree to!”

  “I insist that you obey the basic rules of -”

  “It's dripping!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The lamb, Victoria. It's dripping all over the bloody floor.”

  Looking down, I realize that he's right. Water is running down my wrists and dripping from my elbows, spattering against the floor.

  “This is for the best,” he continues, sounding exhausted. “We've been miserable for the past few years and -”

  “Is it because of Laura?”

  He freezes, as if the mere mention of that name has sent a shock straight to his heart.

  “It's nothing to do with Laura,” he stammers finally, clearly unsettled. “Why would you even suggest that? Jesus Christ, Victoria, you don't half dredge up the past someti
mes. This is because of you and me, and our passionless, sexless excuse for a -”

  “We need to talk about this.”

  “Not now, okay? I really want to get out of here, check in at the Merchant, and clear my head. I've spent long enough cooped up in this airtight apartment.”

  He carries his suitcase toward the hallway, and I feel another flutter of panic in my chest. I turn to look at him, but suddenly I feel as if I'm being watched. Looking toward the dining table, I half expect to spot a figure staring at me from the shadows, but the sensation quickly passes. Still, that wasn't the first time...

  “And for God's sake,” Jonathan adds, “put that leg of lamb down. It's not like you'd even know how to cook it, anyway.”

  “Wait!”

  Turning, I hurry through to the kitchen and set the still-mostly-frozen leg in the sink. Before I can turn to hurry after Jonathan, however, I suddenly realize that I've made a dreadful mistake. I don't know how I failed to notice, but somehow I came into the bathroom instead of the kitchen, and now the leg is resting in the basin where I usually perform my ablutions. How could I get the bathroom and the kitchen mixed up?

  “What...” I stammer.

  A moment later I hear the front door opening, and an absolute rush of pure fury rises through my chest.

  I look at my reflection in the mirror and I see something utterly new in my eyes.

  Fear.

  I blink.

  And now the fear is gone. Now I look calm again. I feel a little dizzy, but for the most part I am once again very composed. Something feels very wrong. I look down at the leg of lamb, and then a moment later I feel something brush against my shoulder. I feel absolutely certain that somebody is here with me. Somebody apart from Jonathan.

  I look again at my reflection.

  Laura is right behind me. Her flesh is pale and rotten, and her eyes have been eaten away, leaving blackened sockets. Wet, matted hair is stuck to her forehead and to the sides of her face, and water is dribbling from her mouth. Not just her mouth, either. There's a hole on the side of her neck, and a kind of thick slime is oozing down the side of her neck and gathering around the tattered threads of her shirt.

  Gasping, I turn to face her, but suddenly she's gone. I can smell something foul in the air, though, and I quickly turn back to the mirror.

  She's really gone.

  My heart is pounding, and for a moment I simply stare at myself. I can see genuine fear in my expression, and I can feel anger creeping up from my gut, extending its long, thin fingers until their knuckles bump against the inside of my rib-cage.

  That can't have been Laura.

  Please God, set my mind straight.

  “Jonathan,” I whisper, before turning and hurrying out of the bathroom. For a moment, filled with panic, I start running, but I stop in the doorway and see to my surprise that Jonathan is sitting in his favorite reading chair, over by the window.

  He's staring at me with the most curious expression. I watch him for a moment, before realizing that his suitcase is nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you...”

  My voice trails off for a moment. There is so much I want to ask him, but finally I turn and look back into the bathroom. I can see the mirror through the open door, and the leg of lamb is still resting in the sink, but there's no sign of Laura.

  Well, of course there's no sign of Laura. How could there be? I must have simply allowed Jonathan's careless mention of her name to briefly affect me. How silly.

  “Is anything wrong, my dear?” Jonathan asks.

  I turn to him. He seems so calm, as if all his earlier talk of leaving the marriage has been entirely forgotten.

  “Of course not,” I tell him, somehow managing to force a smile. “Everything is splendid. Why wouldn't it be? I'm just so glad that you...”

  Again, I fall silent for a moment. Jonathan is staring at me, and I'm certain that there's a rather strange energy in the apartment, but I suppose such things are merely flights of fancy. I want to ask him if he's ever seen anything unusual in the bathroom mirror, if perhaps he's ever seen Laura, but I quickly tell myself to keep my silly mouth shut. The last thing we need, in the middle of this awful wobble, is to start dredging up the past.

  “I should finish getting ready,” I stammer finally, forcing a smile. “I must -”

  Before I can finish, I feel something cold dribbling past my wrists and toward my elbows. Looking down, I find that quite suddenly I'm holding the leg of lamb again.

  “You should put that thing somewhere to defrost,” Jonathan tells me, eyeing me with a hint of caution, as if he's worried about something. In fact, he looks rather pale and shocked. “You can't hold it all night, dear.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but at the last moment I turn instead and look toward the dining table. All the chairs are empty, yet still I cannot shake the feeling that somebody is watching me.

  Part One

  VICTORIA

  Chapter One

  Today

  He takes a moment to pick the right knife. Always. Finally he takes one, runs a finger against the blade's edge, and then turns to me. For a moment he says nothing, does nothing, offers nothing. He simply stares at me for longer than feels comfortable before a faint smile crosses his lips and he says four words.

  “This should do it.”

  A shudder runs through my chest as he comes over to the counter, and I watch as he expertly slices the fish's belly. There's blood on his hands now, and he wastes no time in slipping his fingers through the fresh slit and scooping out the innards. The scales glisten, some of them falling away and mixing with the blood that's now slopping out across the chopping board. Turning the fish around, he holds the belly open and makes a couple more cuts, and this time some darker liquid slops out. And all the while, the fish's eye seems to be watching me.

  Suddenly feeling nauseous, I turn away. When did Jonathan become so good at gutting?

  “Victoria?” he says, sounding a little concerned. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, although it takes a moment longer for my stomach to settle.

  “Do you have to make so much mess?” I ask.

  “I'm gutting a fish, dear. It's a messy endeavor.”

  “Still...”

  “Or would you rather do it?”

  I swallow hard. He knows the answer to that question.

  “It's six-thirty,” he continues, sounding a little tired and also a little pleased with himself. “They'll be here soon. Or Elliot will, at least. That bugger's always on time, down to the nearest nano-second. And he probably picked up Sophie on the way, as usual, so they'll be together.” He sighs. “Joined at the bloody hip, those two. I don't know why they don't just... Well, you know what I mean. They might as well join in all the other obvious places, too.”

  I nod again, still taking slow, deep breaths.

  “Victoria?”

  He puts a hand on my arm, and I instinctively pull away. Turning to him, I see blood on his fingertips, but he's stopped working on the fish for a moment. He's not always the most perceptive man in the world, but he clearly knows something's wrong right now. I can't help glancing past him, however, and staring at the bloody mess on the counter. Jonathan is so, so good at gutting fish. If he wasn't a seven-figure-earning architect, he'd make a wonderful butcher.

  “You look pale,” he says after a moment. “You're not sick, are you?”

  I shake my head. I think I might vomit if I try to speak. A moment later, I look toward the large freezer on the far side of the kitchen, and my head briefly fills with an airy, dizzy sensation.

  “Do you want to go and rest for a while?” Jonathan asks, his words echoing slightly all around me. “The air in the apartment can get a little -”

  “Of course not,” I reply, even though the words make me feel even more nauseous. I take a step back, away from the freezer, and now I feel a little better. “We have visitors coming. I'm not going to bed now! Are you crazy?”

  “I just...”

/>   He pauses, but he's still watching me. He does this sometimes. He just stares, and I can never work out what he's thinking. I used to think it was cute, but that was a long time ago.

  “I don't really need any more help in here,” he says finally. “It can get a little stuffy once all the pots are on. If you feel like it, why don't you go make sure the table's ready? That's more your area of expertise, isn't it? I think it's a little cooler through there, anyway. Plus, you can open the wine and let it breathe. Maybe even take a glass, just to help yourself relax. But only one. You don't want to end up like Lucy Fugelman.”

  I don't need to be asked twice. Turning quickly, I hurry across the kitchen. My heels tap against the floor, and I can hear my pace quickening until finally I reach the lounge and the tapping sound becomes slightly hollower on the marble. I slow as I reach the dining table, and I place a hand on the back of a chair as I stop and take a moment to regather my composure. Jonathan was right, it is cooler in here. I hadn't realized that I was feeling so utterly stuffy.

  Outside, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the penthouse, twinkling lights stud the dark city. From up here on the building's thirtieth floor, London looks almost calm, almost safe, almost clean. Almost not a nightmare. I almost feel better.

  “Did I put out the right wine glasses?” Jonathan calls through from the kitchen.

  I look along the table. Six glasses are laid out with absolute precision. It's almost as if he used a measuring tape to ensure that they're all perfectly aligned. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly what he was doing while I was still in the dressing room. It's not just the glasses that are so neat, either. Plates, cutlery, accouterments both vital and unnecessary, even the utterly pointless name tags... Everything is in perfect, almost military formation. Jonathan has never left anything to chance, not for as long as I've known him. That's one of the reasons I decided to marry him. Now it's one of the reasons why I...